


Clint Barton and the taming of giant green rage machines

by lindt_barton



Category: Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Clint Barton: Human Disaster, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Pining, Pre-Slash, can i pet it one time, how the hell do you tag fics, the hulk - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-23
Updated: 2014-09-23
Packaged: 2018-02-18 13:08:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2349509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lindt_barton/pseuds/lindt_barton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Really he just wants to pet it. One time. It’s a bit of a compulsion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clint Barton and the taming of giant green rage machines

Clint is on a mission. 

Not Hawkeye. A critical difference. Their tactics, and success rates, are entirely juxtaposed. Clint’s are often critiqued. By Kate Bishop. And Natasha Romanov. And Phil Coulson. Okay, sort of any one he spends extended periods of time interacting with.

It involves whistling. Anaconda. Sort of. It’s been stuck in his head for three days. And then it involves losing his balance on top of a pile of rubble that may have been half a bus station and hop-skipping until he’s on ground that isn’t trying to make him land face first. It looked deliberate. Definitely. Sort of.

This is when the Hulk spots him. Clint wasn’t sneaking up on him. That was in fact the opposite of what Clint was doing. An overt and non threatening approach. Actually, the definitely-sort-of-deliberate-hop-skip-tumble probably worked in his favour on that objective. Clint snaps on his best I-meant-to-do-that smile and garnishes with a little, “Hello,” in his Best Befriending Baritone.

(Oh yes, Clint has a mission.)

The Hulk pauses in his rummage through debris. He rises to direct his great mass towards Clint and lumbers over, great big hazel eyes fixed on Clint. Curious. A little wary, but more curious. Within five metres of Clint he drops back into a crouch. Civil introductions ought to made at more equal heights. He allows a pause to assess Clint’s reaction.

Now Clint holds his posture carefully relaxed. Neutral. Nooot gonna shoot you with the tranq gun holstered at my thigh. If Hulk were a dog he’d hold out a hand in invitation for friendly pats, but that only makes sense when you know a hell of a lot of dogs like getting their ears scratches, and that they know this is the petting signal. Do Hulks like getting their ears scratched? So Clint reminds himself that this isn’t a dog, it’s a four metre tall mostly muscle monster (that may like getting its ears scratched). He just stands and waits for curiosity to draw him in.

The Hulk resumes his approach. Clint stays still, I’m not about to pounce. I’m chill like that. Even when the fucking massive and often deadly green rage machine is less than an inch from your face, examining you, you stay calm and hope to hell he doesn’t suddenly decide to chomp down on your head. 

Because really he just wants to pet it. One time. It’s a bit of a compulsion, several have pointed out. He really can’t resist any animal (or giant green rage machine) that may stumble into his path (assuming there aren’t weird metal spiders intent on taking over the subway to deal with, but as of ten minutes ago, there aren’t). Okay, maybe the Hulk isn’t the curious one here.

He waits until Hulk’s happily sniffing at his hair, ruffling it really with every gargantuan sniff, and he sneaks a hand onto one of those ridiculous shoulders. A moment of contact. Of thick, soft skin over a gargantuan body of preternatural muscle which is radiating heat like a machine rather than a creature. But only a moment, because the Hulk startles back and glares at him. Is that a glare? He huffs at Clint. And then.

He leans forward again. Bows his head in front of Clint. Offers his crown. 

“Oh,” Hulks do like getting scratched. Clint buries a hand in the dense black hair. Too thick to be hair really. Kinda like a porcupine? 

Clint is now entering what Kate calls The Land of Dog (an inaccurate title, Clint would point out, because as you can see it does not merely cover dogs). Symptoms include an unconscious dopey grin, absolute sensory isolation from the world outside of the dog/giant green rage machine, and in the worst cases, baby talk. 

It is in this blissful state that the Hulk plants two fingers on Clint’s shoulder and, owing to their size, Clint loses his balance entirely. Due to his carefully honed assassin reflexes Clint waves his hands about until they find the nearest handhold: the Hulk’s hair. This is possibly the worst thing he course of action he could have taken. The Hulk roars. The sound goes straight through every fibre of Clint’s body. Every nerve. All of his instincts simultaneously shit themselves.

Clint immediately lets go of the giant green screaming rage machine and falls. In the pristine moment of calm that occurs in the centre of all disasters Clint’s brain points out to him that the Hulk had only done to him what Clint had done to the Hulk two minutes earlier. He strikes the concrete with a distinct whump and a small cloud of dust. Another layer of dirt to complement those of blood and sweat he’s already rocking. He allows himself a couple of self pitying seconds on the floor before sitting up with a small wheeze. 

The Hulk looks bigger and greener and angrier. He’s scrubbing the pain out of his scalp. Clint catches his eye and the Hulk lets out an indignant roar. HEY. That was uncalled for. Clint just sits with a scrunched up apologetic face. He doesn’t know how to react to being reprimanded on his behaviour by a monster world renowned for smashing things. There’s a word he should probably say but he’s never been good at that one. He scratches the back of his neck.

The Hulk huffs again. They stare. An impasse. A projectile at its highest point. A moment destined to fail. Clint blinks. A deafening roar rips through the air silenced as 1.24 tonnes of gold titanium alloy smash overdramatically into the ground. Thousands of tiny concrete lumps hop into the air. 

Tony flicks back his mask, “We heard roaring. Thought there might have been-” a pause in which he glances at the pair of them sitting facing each other, “... a situation.” Tony gestures to the pair of them, “Am I interrupting a moment here,” Tony of course choosing the one phrase that could make any moment awkward, “or is this the support group for the emotionally stunted?” At least he gives Clint something to work with.

Clint cracks a vague smile and stares into space just above Tony’s left shoulder as he pats the ground beside him, “Well, we couldn’t start without you Tin Man.” 

“Admitting you have a problem is the first step to recovery, we’re all proud of you for being here Barton.”

Their cheap pot shots are cut short by the Hulk letting out the most gargantuan sigh either of them have ever heard (and considering this is Clint Barton and Tony Stark, that is one hell of a sigh). Simultaneously, they swing their heads towards him and gape affronted. Only to realise he is half as big as he was when Stark arrived and visibly shrinking. Not a sigh. A sound effect. A great big green deflating rage machine. 

The Hulk shudders. His sigh is followed by pained roars. As his green colouring fades to an off yellow, the colour of old bruises, the roar morphs in the air to a human scream. Clint flinches, has to look away. Tony can’t seem to peel his eyes off him. The hulk, Bruce? pitches forward onto his knees. His fingers splayed in the concrete dust around him leave troughs and they clench. Every muscle spasms and clenches beyond their reach ripping him inwards. As he edges towards humanity he seems to gain enough control to quell screams and replace them with sharp pants of breath, but sharp grunts of pain still escape between clenched teeth. 

At last, complete, he falls limp and silent to the dirt. Clint turns back. For an instant he sees only a lifeless unbreathing body. Bruce’s rib cage shakes as it rises with that first human breath. Clint blinks. He should-

Tony strides forward to Bruce and drops to a knee beside him. He pulls from some arcane compartment a metallic red silk gown trimmed in gold and holds it before Bruce as a butler might. “Rise and shine, Master Wayne.” Bruce plants a hand on the ground and pushes himself up. He looks at Tony and the gown. Any time but this it would draw dry remarks from Bruce and Tony would smile like he had created him. Now Bruce only accepts the offer and slips into the offered shield. And Tony watches like he’s going to fix him. 

“Can you handle a lift, big boy?” Tony asks. Clint can’t hear, but reads the please from Bruce’s lips. He slips an arm under Bruce’s, around his chest, and stands for him. Only now do his eyes break from Bruce’s and glance down at Clint. He smiles his display smile, “Catch ya later alligator.” 

Bruce smiles down. Small, polite, awkward, tired. Apologism on default. You did nothing wrong. They leave. Clint is still in the dirt. 

Only now does he remember, Hawkeye’d had a mission too: to locate a Hulk, assess any injuries he may have, and retrieve a Bruce Banner. Clint had distracted Hawkeye with his stupid. Idiot. Games. And so Clint had succeeded in his mission, but at the cost of Hawkeye’s. Both want Bruce to keep looking at them, but not like that. 

It didn’t usually go like this.

**Author's Note:**

> yyyeah it reads like the first chapter, but this is all i got sorry 'bout that. please, tell me everything wrong with it so i can make the next one better.


End file.
